As mentioned just a short while ago, my friend B has declared the flashmob “so three years ago, right?”  With the occasional, very exceptional exception, she’s right. It’s time to lay the flashmob to rest. It was fresh, it was amusing and then it was co-opted by corporations and their professional dancers, or – worse – well meaning middle managers and their employees. Flashmobs were intended to be surprising and entertaining, not 5 minutes of slow jazzercise to Man in the Mirror.

So to bid farewell to this clearly dead horse, I offer you what I believe was the best of the best: The Hammerpants Flashmob, created by the A&E network to publicize what I assume was a short-lived reality show about MC Hammer.  Enjoy first, and I will defend my position in the afterglow.

Why is the best? I know there have been bigger and better flashmobs that, back in 2010, brought a tear to your eye or a shiver to your spine. But this is my choice for the tops. Let me explain (understanding that this list of 6 reasons has been pared down from about 20).

1.  It was 2009 and the average person did not know what  flashmob was. The appearance of random people in the shop sporting golden hammerpants may have rung a bell in their brain, but they would not have known if it were for dinner or class or what. Their ignorance meant the experience was fresh. Note the lack of people filming this on their phones. Hammerpanted people milling about a shop in 2011 would be cause for every camera phone in the place to be at the ready.

2. The aforementioned hammerpants. A few dancers were dispersed in advance among the crowd, and they were wearing their hammerpants.  And when the mob arrived they, too, had on their golden hammerpants. But with dedication they stuck to the “hammerpants and whatever else you happen to be wearing” idea. Well done for not tarting it up.

3. The aforementioned mob, for a few reasons. First, they are obviously not professional dancers, which is often the preference for slick, corporate sponsored flashmobs. Second, they were not all standing among the crowd, as is often the case with later flashmobs in which the mobbers appear to make up the entire crowd themselves. There were just a few in the shop, the rest arriving later, coming out of no where in great numbers. Like a mob. Get it?

4. The absolute ridiculousness of the dance itself. Sure we all thought MC Hammer was a dance revolutionary in 1990, but we never thought it was a dance for the ages (though he might have, based on his profligate spending). We see its ridiculousness, and when this kicks off with just two people at the 20 second mark, the ratio of dancers to space,  combined with the hammerpants and the chosen intro move of the rapid sideways crabbing…well that’s new math and it equals GOLD.

5. When they departed, they departed like a mob, running and screaming. They didn’t disperse trying to be cool and pretending this whole thing never happened. THEY MOBBED YOU, BITCH! And now they are gone.

6. Finally, but very very importantly,  go to the 49 second mark for three seconds of glory.

 

The Flashmob. Let’s always remember it the way it was intended: with hammerpants.

Next week, I offer my critique of those hilarious, spontaneous wedding videos featuring down-the-aisle musical routines or highly scripted father-daughter dances.

But then, why make you wait until next week? Here it is now:

Fuck the fuck off.

 

By the way, the best part of this post? Adding hammerpants to my spellcheck dictionary. And then making it correct “ahmmerpants” ten times.

 

 

I get my TV online and don’t have cable so I miss out on a lot of things. Most of the time I can confidently say “thank Christ for that.”

But every now and then I feel like I’m missing out. And if I am missing out, you are missing out. Case in point – because I have never seen VH1′s Mob Wives,  I missed this connection:

1. Big Ang (apologies for the quality. Big Ang is elusive)

 

2. Muttley

 

You’re welcome.

 

 

…no, I have not yet had enough of Teddy the Talking Porcupine.

Here he is on New Year’s Eve. The way he hurls the empty glass to the ground at the end brings a tear to my eye. A self-aware, nostalgic tear.

 

Speaking of thieving, let me take you back a few years, to a time when I was living with the ex. The ex didn’t like to socialise much, and generally stayed downstairs in his workshop when my friends were over. We would eat, drink, be merry and send him down a plate of food.

One day, the morning after such an evening, he noted that a knife was missing from the kitchen. Not a big knife, just a small kitchen knife – the sort that I was prone to borrowing for repair jobs, rather than having to go find a screwdriver or the like.

 Did one of your friends take it?

Seriously?

Well I suppose that’s a possibility we could entertain, were my friends hobos prone to stealing anything not nailed down.

I, of course, immediately told my friends that he had suggested one of them had stolen a knife from us. A great laugh was had by all. A few months later, when the same friends were again over, and the ex was again sequestered in his workshop, and when I left the room for a brief period, my friends, led by the Faithful S, decided they would have some fun.

They were going to steal something.

The task of obtaining an item fell to a friend we’ll call Little Hands, or LH for short. This sort of task always falls to LH. She’s highly suggestible, and in the past we had been successful at getting her to do pretty much any task where we thought there was a high risk of capture. Additionally, she has the little hands that are handy for jobs like retrieving items that should not have gone into a sealed refuse container.

So LH was told to go up to my workroom and quickly steal something small, but significant.  Small, but significant. From my workroom. Continue reading »

 

The house a few doors down is putting on a vulgar display this Christmas. Not only do they have their windows and front porch tastefully done in perfectly aligned white mini-lights, they have spotlights accenting the house and a small tree in front of it, with matching white mini-lights and a small Santa topper.

At some point during a festive gathering at my house, an old friend of mine pointed out the neighbor’s display.

Look at that Santa topper. Pfft that’s a bit showy, isn’t it?

And just like that, the seed was planted.  Perhaps it was the homemade rocket-fuel nog I had been consuming, perhaps it was that our only outdoor decoration was also a tree, albeit one with a few strings of multi-coloured lights, and one of those strings may have malfunctioned, leaving us with a tree that had a (non) glaring paucity of lights in its mid-section. Whatever it was, I began to fixate on that Santa tree topper and my desire to remove it.

santa 200x300 Santa Baby.

You will be mine, fat man. Mine.

Before we go any further here, can I just address the comments I am sure to get from some of my friends: That so-called obsession I had with the nutcracker across the road was not about it being a giant nutcracker in someone’s front yard. It was about the fact that that goddamn giant nutcracker, all six feet of him, WAS STILL THERE IN APRIL. Why would anyone leave a piece of seasonal decor out that long? They removed every other piece of Christmas trash from their yard and still the nutcracker remained, staring at my home, day in and day out. I couldn’t walk down the driveway without feeling his beady stare all over me. In my dreams, his clacking jaw would dis-joint and swallow me whole. God how I hated him.

But I don’t feel that way about this Santa. I’m not sure how to put my feelings into words, I just know that I want him in my possession, to stroke and gloat over. Yet at the same time, I don’t want to be arrested - especially not for something as lame as stealing a tree topper.  If I’m going to be tossed in the back of a cop car, I had better be wearing a fez, with the  blood of someone I barely even know on my hands, and police standing at the edge of the lawn giving an interview to the local news that is peppered with statements such as  ”never seen anything like it,” and “stole his mini-car” and “could not fit the body in the trunk, at which time the neighbors alerted us.”

And so it was that as we  pulled into the drive last night,  I again stared at the Santa tree topper and then turned to Mr Wry and shouted “I’VE GOT IT!”  He was momentarily startled and then a look of dread crept over his face.

“Got what?”  (In his experience, my eureka moments are often accompanied by plans that are not always well fleshed out and  may involve some physical peril for him.)

“That Santa tree topper. I’ve got the perfect plan for how to steal it!”

“Oh God, look what have they ever–”

“I’LL BUY ONE JUST LIKE IT!”

“What?”

“I’ll buy one just like it, steal theirs, stick it on the top of OUR tree and then when the cops come because he claims I’ve stolen his Santa, I can show them my receipt.”

“You know, that’s almos–”

“AND THEN NEXT YEAR I’LL STICK BOTH OF THEM ON MY TREE AND FLIP THEM THE BIRD, BECAUSE THE COPS WILL THINK THEY’RE THE CRAZY ONES!”

“You realize that you have practically admitted there that you are, in fact, the crazy one. You’ll just be fooling the cops.”

“How about you get in the house before they notice you staring at their Santa.”

“I AM NOT STARING AT THEIR SANTA!”

“Calm down. The neighbors are going to think you’ve got a thing for their decor.”

The vision of Mr Wry, head slumped on the steering wheel, quietly muttering “how to win friends and influence people”  is one that I will cherish for many Christmases to come.

Not like I’m going to cherish that Santa, though. Precious.

 

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